


Something Like Grace

by argentconflagration



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale's complete inability to ever shut up about Crowley, Dining at the Ritz (Good Omens), Other, Post-Almost Apocalypse (Good Omens), and vaguely sexual metaphysical experiences?, public not-sex, public something, public transcendent soul mixing, some intense making out, this is 'Crowley Has a Praise Kink (Good Omens)'-adjacent content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-12
Updated: 2020-03-12
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:22:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23111653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/argentconflagration/pseuds/argentconflagration
Summary: Crowley holds out for the longest two seconds of his life before his thoughts spill into the silence without permission. "What, going to say we aren't friends again?" Halfway through the sentence he remembers to pull his heart off the floor, and the second half of the sentence turns up in pitch, into an attempt at light teasing that fools absolutely no one.Aziraphale takes full advantage of his newfound freedom to publicly express affection for Crowley.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 44
Kudos: 270
Collections: BestFicsForTeirin





	Something Like Grace

"Are you and your friend enjoying everything?" the waiter asks, and that's what gives Crowley the first spike of anxiety he's felt since they'd swapped back on the bench. 

After all they've been through in the past twenty-four hours, Aziraphale couldn't possibly feel the need to deny him before strangers anymore, right? But he still digs the fingers of one hand into his jeans, because Aziraphale is hesitating. 

Crowley holds out for the longest two seconds of his life before his thoughts spill into the silence without permission. "What, going to say we aren't friends again?" Halfway through the sentence he remembers to pull his heart off the floor, and the second half of the sentence turns up in pitch, into an attempt at light teasing that fools absolutely no one. 

Aziraphale doesn't answer immediately. A smile like the sun rising is spreading across his face, and he glances between Crowley and the waiter with soft eyes. "Oh, no, of course not. We're quite good friends. He's my best friend, actually." And here he lies his hand softly on top of Crowley's where it rests on the table, as his face continues to light up. "He is my lifelong companion, my beloved." 

Crowley's throat had been tightening with every word out of Aziraphale's mouth, and now a choked and embarrassing sound escapes him. Aziraphale hasn't even stopped talking.

"We met in the garden, you know," he's saying. He gives a little wiggle in his seat, his face radiant with delight. "He'd just done the most clever thing ... he's brilliant as anything. Did you know he hung the stars?"

Crowley attempts to cut in -- Aziraphale can't just _say_ things like that in front of humans! -- but he can't. His throat is too constricted, his body too tightly strung with emotion. Some sort of strangled noise comes out of him, that neither Aziraphale nor the waiter seem to hear. 

"Once, we met in Rome, and went out for oysters," Aziraphale continues. He gives the waiter a glance that seems nearly conspiratorial. "They were exquisite -- but the company was better." 

The waiter clears his throat in a modest attempt to encourage Aziraphale to wrap up his story. Aziraphale is far from wrapping up his story. Crowley can do nothing but sit back, helpless, as Aziraphale comes close to killing him again and again with the affection in his words. 

"Oh, and we had crepes together in Paris," Aziraphale says breathily. At this point he sounds nearly as overwhelmed as Crowley feels. "He rescued my books once, from a bombing, oh, he's so clever and brave and dashing." He's so earnest and _proud,_ and Crowley is going to spontaneously combust, or possibly melt into the floor, if he keeps this up. "I've adored him for so long, but there were just things that got in the way ..." He looks directly at Crowley with love written all over his face, and he might literally be glowing. That, or Crowley's just in no shape to perceive anything -- the likelier option, all things considered. Trying to look at Aziraphale is like swallowing honey by the spoonful.

He takes Crowley's hand and presses a kiss to Crowley's knuckles, and Crowley is either going to burst into tears or skip straight past that to discorporation. 

"... And I love him very dearly," Aziraphale finishes in a whisper, as a tentative relief overtakes the waiter's face. 

Crowley wants to sob. He wants to take Aziraphale's face in both hands and kiss him until neither of them can breathe. He wants to repeat what they did last night, to climb into Aziraphale's body and Aziraphale into him, to mix so thoroughly there's no longer any distinction between them. But he can't do any of that in public, so he just --

Actually, fuck that. With a snap of his fingers, the restaurant falls silent. The waiter's pained smile freezes in place. 

Aziraphale blinks in confusion. "Why did--"

He doesn't get any further before Crowley is slithering into his lap, sliding both hands into his hair, kissing him desperately. 

A delicious noise comes from somewhere in Aziraphale's throat, and Crowley swallows it down. One of Aziraphale's hands gently strokes his hair while the other curls around his back. Aziraphale sighs helplessly against Crowley and Crowley's a mess, he's done for, he's going to lose it. 

And then he does, all at once. His wings snap out behind him as the now-recognizable feeling hits him, of the boundaries between him and Aziraphale dissolving into static. And of course -- of course he knew Aziraphale loved him. Had no worries whatsoever that Aziraphale might be repulsed by a demon crawling into his lap in the middle of a very nice lunch. But, oh, to _feel_ it is something else entirely. Aziraphale is filled to the brim with _I love you_ and _I get to have you_ and _I get to love you,_ it's pouring out of him, it's filling Crowley up more than his heart can handle. And he knows Aziraphale can feel the answering chant of _You love me, you love me, you love me_ that's hammering behind his ribcage.

He doesn't know how long they stay in that echoing loop of sensation. Technically, time doesn't exist anyway. But when they pull back, Aziraphale's flushed and giddy, and Crowley's body is slack with exhaustion. Aziraphale gives him a final kiss, and then Crowley staggers back to his chair and haphazardly arranges his limbs on it. 

_"Crowley,"_ Aziraphale whispers, sounding thoroughly wrecked, and Crowley's dizzied from how his ego swells at that. He runs a hand through his disheveled hair, feigning casualness, like he does this every day, like Aziraphale hasn't just cracked him open and poured warmth and happiness into all the dark corners light was never supposed to touch again. Aziraphale's looking at him with something close to disbelief, and Crowley gets it, how absurd it is that they faced down the hosts of Heaven and Hell and flipped them both middle fingers. How after millennia of wanting, freedom has fallen into their lap.

Crowley swallows and tears his eyes away, and lets the restaurant slowly come back to life. The waiter is still by the table, coming around to fill their glasses again. Aziraphale is looking into his glass with a small, private smile, for once not immediately tucking into the dishes laid out on the table. Crowley flatters himself to think that Aziraphale has just had something far more satisfying. 

Aziraphale turns to him with a grin, that bastard grin that Crowley can't help but be charmed by. 

"I'd like to think," he starts, "that none of this would have worked out if you weren't, at heart, just a little bit, a good person."

He's too blissed out to be offended, and Aziraphale knows it, and he knows Aziraphale knows it. He gives him an indulgent smile. "And if you weren't, deep down, just enough of a bastard to be worth knowing." 

The look on Aziraphale's face is everything -- delighted and flustered and coy. Crowley raises his glass to his -- to his _beloved._ "Cheers," he says, and he could conquer the world, he could raze Heaven and Hell, he could do anything as long as Aziraphale continues to bestow on him that shy, adoring smile. "To the world." 

Aziraphale lifts his glass to meet Crowley's, looking at him with eyes that are impossibly, achingly fond. 

"To the world."

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [Lurlur](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lurlur), [under_a_linden_tree](https://archiveofourown.org/users/under_a_linden_tree), and akinmytua for britpicking and beta work!  
> And shoutout to [chaoticlivi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chaoticlivi) / ineffable-endearments for her [post](https://ineffable-endearments.tumblr.com/post/189304212669/i-was-trying-to-think-of-exactly-what-the-vibe-is) about the Ritz scene having an afterglow vibe because that definitely influenced the direction this fic took!


End file.
